


Queenie

by SLWalker



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1993: A burned-out Ray gets saddled with a cat and makes a questionable judgment call.  Is it possible to make it right, in the end?  Or is it too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queenie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ButterflyGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/gifts).



> This is canon for Arch to the Sky, though not a part of the series itself.

"So, someone wanna tell me why Fluffy's on my desk? Huh?"

The entirety of the 2-7 ignored Ray. Completely. The cat didn't even give him the courtesy of a glance, even though the giant fluffball in white was laying right smack in the middle of his desk like the Queen of freaking Sheba. Ray looked down at his clothes, then at the cat, then made shooing motions. "Cat hair and fine clothing doesn't mix, hairball. Git!"

Gardino snorted from his desk, and Ray shot him a glare. "Was this your idea, Louie? Huh?" Then he called out to the general precinct, "Whose cat is this?! Is this someone's idea of a joke?!"

Again, he got no answer. Except the cat yawning widely.

Ray muttered to himself and reached out, picking the surprisingly heavy furball up. He was _just about_ to put the cat down on the floor to find its own way to wherever it was gonna go when Welsh's voice stopped him mid-bend.

"I didn't realize we were running a kennel, Detective."

"It's not my cat, sir, it was on my desk when I came in." Ray straightened up, holding the cat and internally cursing about the white fur that was going to get all over his silk shirt. "I think someone's playing a joke."

"Wherever it's from, get rid of it." Welsh glowered at him. "Humanely."

Ray felt his heart sink, looking at the pile of case files in his inbox, and the pitifully empty solved box. Half the precinct was watching and snickering now. And then Welsh sneezed, taking a step back.

"Now, Vecchio."

"Yes, sir."

 

 

The Queen of Sheba made herself comfortable against his leg in the car, and purred like the Riv's engine. It almost harmonized. And Ray watched the white fur floating on the air, hating every moment of it. His trousers now had a thick layer of hair wherever she was laying.

He had called all the shelters, public and private. He had even gotten desperate and called other precincts, only to be laughed right off the phone. He looked around the 2-7 for missing cat posters, and came up with bupkis. He called Frannie, who was a sucker for small furry things, but she begged off reluctantly. He even thought about ditching the cat in an alley somewhere, just so he could get rid of it and get back to his crushing caseload.

Not that any of them were decent cases. He never got decent cases these days.

He also kind of stopped caring. It was just a job. His heart wasn't in it. He just needed to keep making the money 'cause no one else was. It had been a long time since Ray felt like he had done any good. But at least it paid, kept Ma and everyone fed, clothed and sheltered.

Ray sighed out, looking down at the furball. "You hungry? I'm hungry."

The cat yawned and stretched, leaving another layer of fur on his trousers.

 

 

"New partner, Vecchio?" Whittaker asked with a smirk.

He'd gotten razzed about it now half a day, as he carried the cat back into the 2-7, feeling frazzled and feeling her claws kneading little holes into his shirt as she kept on purring. "Shut up."

"I mean, I guess since none of the two-leggers would work with you..."

Ray just curled his lip in a sneer and kept walking.

Welsh was in his office. Ray walked in, not particularly caring whether he kicked up the Lieu's allergies. "I can't do this, sir."

"You can't deal with a kitty, Vecchio?" Welsh asked, pushing his chair back like the extra foot could keep the allergies from attacking.

"No. I can't deal with a kitty, sir. No one wants the kitty. No one has room for the kitty. No one's looking for the kitty." Ray went to sit the cat on the desk.

Welsh's look stopped him cold, reminding him that there were, apparently, limits on his ability to be frustrated past the point of insubordination. "I suppose you should take the cat home, then, Detective. I don't want to see it here tomorrow."

"Fine," Ray said, and then he turned and walked out.

 

 

The alley wasn't bad. Had another cat in it, a scraggly thing with a feral look. But it didn't look too starved, and there were trash bins that would do okay in a pinch. The Queen there had some extra pounds, too. She'd be fine. In the dim light of evening, Ray figured that he'd picked the best option out of several. He sure wasn't gonna _drown_ the cat, like his old man had said he'd done to one that had lived under the shed in their backyard. Though Ray didn't think even his old man was that soulless. Or, if he was, that he was being tormented by cat demons in hell for it.

He'd picked the best alley he could find. Old neighborhood alley, not too heavy traffic on the cross-streets, decent neighborhood. Middle class. Upper class people tended to have feral cats eradicated. Poverty-stricken people had too many cats hanging around. If Queen was gonna get picked up, this was her best chance.

Ray looked down at the cat against his leg, then gathered her up. She woke up and started purring, rubbing her head into his hand.

On an impulse, he buried his nose in her fur and squeezed her closer to his chest. Didn't matter. He was wearing enough cat hair already. Might be awhile before someone took pity on her and took her in, and she hadn't been a bad cat. Her fur tickled his nose, and he felt stupid and tired.

He got out of the car and set her down on a trash bin, then got back in the car and drove away. Headed for home, but every block he went, he was aware of the distance between him and that cat. The mental map of Chicago, with two blips on it, one abandoning the other.

God. It was a cat. Just a cat. She'd be fine. She was an animal.

Ray still couldn't shake the desperate little feeling winding its way across his shoulders and through his stomach.

 

"Raimundo? You're very quiet."

Ray blinked away from his dinner plate and realized that the plate was half-full, still in front of him, and realized the table was fully empty.

"What troubles you?"

_Everything._

"Nothin', Ma. Just kinda tired." Ray got up, pushing the plate aside, committing the near-cardinal sin of leaving a plate half-full. "Long day."

She looked at the plate, then at him, stepping over to feel his forehead and making him roll his eyes internally, if not externally. "Are you sick?"

"No, no. Just had a long day, I'm fine." He stepped back from the mothering, feeling even guiltier than usual, and crossed his arms. His mental map pinged again, two little blips. It was dark out. Maybe Queen had hidden somewhere. It was kinda chilly out. But she had fur. He was still wearing half of it. Frannie had asked what he did with the cat. Maria had distracted her before he could lie. He was grateful for that. Because he couldn't tell 'em that he dropped the cat off in an alley.

Hey, maybe someone even took her in.

Ray didn't care. It wasn't his job to care. He was _sick_ of trying to care. Caring didn't make a difference; caring meant you still got to arrest the same faces, or different faces with the same motives, and you still got to be loaded down with more cases than you could possibly solve, with your lieu riding your ass the whole time and no one wanting to work with you. Caring made no difference. You got all those things anyway, whether you cared or not, but at least if you didn't bother caring, then you didn't get disappointed so damn bad when the bad guys walked, and you didn't feel so damn guilty over a stray _cat_.

"Can I make you tea?" his mother asked, looking even more worried now.

"No, thanks, Ma." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then started walking to his room.

Except, his steps kept going past the stairs and out the door. His hands went to his coat instead of the railing.

Instead of his bed, he climbed into the Riv. Instead of feeling relieved, an aching desperation crept into his gut.

Instead of sleeping it off, he drove.

 

 

The alley didn't have any lights on it when Ray crept the Riv into it, cringing and waiting for someone to call the cops -- ha! -- for him being where he shouldn't be. Drove real careful, looking for a streak of white fur. He didn't see any bodies on the cross street. It was cold out. His hands beat out half a rhythm on the steering wheel, nervous, as he peered out.

She wasn't on the bin. Why did he expect her to be?

Ray stopped the car and got out. "Here kitty, kitty."

...

"C'mon, furball. Here kitty kitty kitty. Let's go. We'll figure it out."

...

"It's cold out here. Kitty kitty kitty kitty!"

...

"Oh, come on! I just left you here! It wasn't like I was gone that long."

...

"Come on, Queenie, don't do this to me. I came back. Kitty kitty kitty!"

Ray rubbed at his upper arms, briskly. Started walking up the alley, calling. Complaining. Calling some more. But she didn't show up. She couldn't have gotten that far. How far could a fat cat _get_?

He walked all the way to the next side street, and stopped complaining, and started praying he wouldn't see any bodies. Any furry white bodies of kitties that laid on his leg and purred just a few hours ago.

"C'mon, _please_. Please. Kitty kitty kitty?"

Still no answer.

Ray felt his throat close when he saw something white on the road, about two blocks away, near the gutter. _No no no no. No._ He started that way, and every step was harder, and every step was more frantic and she couldn't have gotten hit by a car. God, what if she did? What the hell was he _thinking_?

He dragged in a few desperate gasps as he got closer. _Please. Please no. Please no. Please, God, I'm sorry, no._

It was a bag.

It was a bag.

It was a bag.

Ray panted, between relief and mounting fear, eyes starting to sting when he heard a _meow_ and looked around frantically.

Queenie came bolting out of the bushes. Ray grabbed her up, buried his face in her fur, and sobbed his stupid heart out, sitting down hard on the curb and clutching the cat like a little boy holding onto a teddy bear during a bad storm, while she frantically rubbed under his chin and purred.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't tell anyone._

 

 

He took the cat home. Stopped long enough to wipe his face, so he didn't give himself away. Stopped at a gas station and bought some overpriced canned food. Prayed that she did all her business already and could wait until tomorrow for a litter box. Lied to himself all over the place that he didn't care, but it was a pitiful lie now. He didn't want to anymore, it hurt and he was tired of caring. But it was a lie that he didn't.

Queenie slept in his room that night. And the night after. And the night after. Long enough for him to get her a dish, and a litter box, and for Frannie and Ma to fall in love, and for the kids to make poor Queenie probably think the alley was a really good deal now, by comparison.

On the fourth day, someone left a missing cat flier on his desk.

 

"Here," Ray said.

The woman looked relieved. Really relieved. She held her hand over her heart when she had opened the door. She lived just a few blocks away from the 2-7. Queenie was apparently named Snow, and she'd apparently always been an indoor cat, and she'd gotten out on the fire escape one day and managed to find her way down to the dumpsters, landing on the closed lids, and then she didn't know where to go from there. When Ray called, she nearly cried on the phone. He went to the house, got Queenie -- Snow Queenie -- and brought her back.

Now, the woman held out her arms and Ray realized he still had Queenie cradled tight to his chest, leaving a layer of white hair on yet another shirt. At least he'd stopped wearing his nice ones.

"I, uh. She was nice," he said, lamely, handing her over to her owner.

"She's a good cat." The woman closed her eyes, holding Queenie like Ray had, close. The cat was purring just as much as ever. Then the woman opened her eyes, smiling, relieved and happy. "Thank you, Detective Vecchio."

"It was nothin'," Ray said, trying to give it the good ole brush off, so he could get out of there. Before he missed the furball.

"Not to me, it wasn't," she said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then, her eyes welled up with tears, she turned back into the apartment and quietly closed the door.

 _Not to me, either,_ Ray thought, feeling a quiet ache, and a quiet warmth, when the door closed on them and left him outside. _Not even when I wanted it to be._

At least this time, even though he'd screwed up, he managed to put something right in the end.

Something small. But something good.


End file.
